


Tall Tales

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Kid-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick and Daryl have met once before</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tall Tales

Inspired by this piece of artwork: [kids](http://beitae.tumblr.com/post/86473729870/kid-rickyl-for-the-sweet-jay-happy-birthdaaaay)

(and leave a note on her blog if you have the time or inclination, her drawings - most definitely - should be encouraged  : )

 

 

His grandma said the umbrella was a stolen sea-shell - aqua to cobalt blue, spinning between the depths of the ocean, eight spindly legs stretched over his head and the material pink on the inside like a conch shell - you can hear the beach, she’d murmur softly, it can carry you any where. It’s too big to be a sea-shell, Rick reasoned, refusing to be tricked: no way could he float on the ocean in an upturned umbrella, he was eight, not stupid - hush, hush, she smiled, and spun tales about ocean monsters, lost cities, and wooden ships that roamed the Atlantic sea-bed until Rick forgot about the slight to his intelligence and listened to every word she said, mesmerized.  It’s an old umbrella, sturdy of handle, wide in span, and grandma insists he take it whenever Rick leaves the house.  Rick needs both hands to hold it upright, to hold it steady, and in natures hidden dialect of rain and treacherous wind, Rick _can_ hear the ocean, an overlapping echo of water. He’s never seen the sea, although both his parents have gone to Miami for a week to soak up the sun and beaches - to reconnect his grandma said, tugging at Rick’s errant curls - Rick hadn’t realised they were supposed to be connected in the first place; and wonders if the scar on his mommy’s arm is part of the untold seam-work, the hidden join where they slotted together.  Rick is staying with his grandparents until they return, one week in the backwoods of Georgia with its hot spells and sudden downpours, miles, and miles, and miles from the ocean, knowing no person younger than seventy.

It sucks.

His umbrella is a shell, dry as a sandy beach on one side and kissed with water on the other.  At night, when Rick runs outside into his grandmother’s garden, under a bed of glittering stars, it doubles as a UFO as well.

The raindrops fly off in all directions when Rick spins the handle; his gumboots are bright yellow, and Rick is - on this second day of staying with his grandparents – bored, _so, so, so_ bored.  He’s already explored main street, stood outside the pet-shop with his nose glued to the glass, tapping the window to get the attention of the puppies every time the attendant looked away, transfixed as they gnawed on each other tails, sat on each other’s heads, and yawned hugely.  Rick’s been to the park, soggy with water, hoping for a game of baseball or kids his own age, but it was overgrown with weeds, the grass longer than Rick’s knees and there was shattered glass on the pitcher’s mound. He found the monkey-bars, the children’s playground, he found the candy shop, the bar, and the gas station too, there’s nothing left to explore.  Rick turns a corner, walks down another street, hang-dog and surly, thinking he’d rather be at the beach, floating in his upturned umbrella.

He stomps in the puddles, jumping from one pool of water to another, making a game of it, head down, so doesn’t see the burnt out husk of a home until he’s almost parallel to it and then Rick stops, heart thumping with excitement.  It’s dark, pitted with ash and fallen timber, it looks _way cooler_ than the playground, a treasure-trove of possibility, hidden fun, there’s a demolition sign driven into the front lawn and the fire must have gutted the house weeks ago, it’s pungent with the smell of wet ash, but free of the harsh chemicals of fire-fighters.  It’s like his own haunted house, placed here for his entertainment (or a chamber of terrors!  Or a bat cave!) Rick stares at it yearningly. He looks up one side of the street, faux-casual, then edges closer.  He’s a heartbeat from closing his umbrella and putting it aside (grandma said umbrellas inside a house were bad luck; Rick’s not certain if this constitutes as ‘inside’, the roof has fallen in part, the walls gape open to the outside world, but he’s not willing to take the risk) when he sees a boy his own age.

Rick perks up, voice a bright chirrup. “Hullo,” he says, fearlessly, and walks toward the other child - because finally, someone his own age – his smile is gap-toothed and wide.  “I’m Rick.”

The boy’s sitting on his heels, dressed in clothing far too big for his frame, shorts frayed at the hem and a t-shirt more grey than white; his canvas shoes have holes in the side; he doesn’t have an umbrella, or a coat, or even a jumper; and his hair is lank with water. He’s soaked to the bone, Rick realises, and comes to a stop, two feet away with his umbrella extended to cover them both; he started the preliminaries, even if the other boy hadn’t responded Rick sees no reason not to proceed.  “Wanna play with me?”  He makes a vague notion, gesturing toward the wonderland behind him.

The boy tilts his head at an angle to take Rick into account; there’s a bruise on his cheekbone and his knees are skinned, he looks miserable.  “Play?” he echoes. His face twists into a mean sneer, he blinks twice, and rocks on his heels in the cloying dirt.

Rick feels his smile slip.  “We could…if you wanted to.  I’m new here,” he adds, a little hopefully.

“No, I don’t want to _play_ with you,” the boy says.  He stands, rising from his crouch, Rick takes a step back and with it the shelter of his umbrella goes, they’re of equal height, eye to eye, and the boy doesn’t look sad, his face has clouded with anger.  “Stay out of the house.”  The boy knocks into him, hard, shoulder to shoulder, spinning Rick and his umbrella into a dizzy tilt.

 

 

***

 

 _The Dixon house,_ his grandmother revealed later that night, _it went up in flames a month ago_ , s _uch a terrible tragedy_ , _with the oldest in the delinquency halls, too, that poor woman..._    She had frowned and flipped the barbeque ribs onto the plate, spooned out a generous amount of coleslaw and passed it to Rick. His grandmother was knowledgeable about these things; she had worked the court circuit in Southern Georgia, like Rick’s dad did now.  Rick had wanted to be a lawyer too, for a spell, then he and Shane watched _Battlestar Galatica_ over summer and becoming a lawyer was overturned in favour of being an astronaut instead _.  It’s due for demolition in the next few days, son, best you stay away until they bulldozer it_.

 _He made fun of me when I asked him to play,_ Rick confessed, and picked a piece of corn off his cob, slick with butter and rough with salt.  His umbrella wasn’t a sea-shell or a UFO; it wasn’t an octopus or a parachute either, and trying to cover the other boy when he was already wet was stupid, inviting him to play more so.  Rick hadn’t known.  The house that looked so adventurous this morning has lost its allure, the fantasy stripped away, there are skeletons in the exposed beams of its framework, there’s an entire body of stories in the cindered pages of floating ash. Rick remembers the hard shove that almost toppled him to the ground, the sneer on Daryl’s face _.  I don’t think he liked me very much,_ he added, and shuffled, his sock-clad feet slipping on the wooden floors.

 _The boy’s no good_ , his grandfather declared from the other room.  _Neither of those boys are good, trash, the lot of them._  The sound of the football game could be heard, the TV turned up so loud the room fairly vibrated with the sound of tackles and the refs blowing their whistles, his grandfather turned his head to spear Rick with a look.    _Not worth crying over._

Rick’s _not_ crying.

He bristles at the implication, because even at eight he knows its not done; his grandfather hates cry-babies - he hates the Dolphin football team more, and he absolutely detests fags - although the last one confuses Rick because he’s _seen_ his grandfather light up a smoke before.  His grandmother turns him away from the lounge-room, body hooked toward Rick, her hand passes over his nape and squeezes gently. _Imagination is the purview of childhood, Rick_ , she said, seriously, her voice had dropped in volume, like a secret shared, she smelled like sweet corn and her fingers were dry against his neck.  _I don’t think Daryl’s had much of one._  She stared at him expectantly, eyes bright, head tilted to one side like there’s an unasked question floating in the air, Rick feels the tease of it, even if he can’t fathom the words. 

Oblivious to his wife, Rick’s grandfather calls from the opposite room: _Do what the rest of the town does, and stay away from the Dixon’s.  The whole family’s rotten to the core._

 

 

***

 

 

Rick walks the same route the next morning, his pace no longer aimless; when he reaches the ruin, he pauses to read the demolition sign carefully, tracing the writing with one stubby finger until he finds the date. It’s scheduled for destruction in two days. 

He stares at the tree-line, he spends long minutes studying the remains of the house, searching for movement, a shadow curled in on itself, maybe, but no boy his own age appears.  Stumped, Rick heads for the baseball field instead. He misses Shane something awful, they would have spent the entire day catching frogs, or playing ball, Shane’s one of the best hitters on the team, and he talks endlessly, filling up the silences with jokes, non-stop, until Rick is forced to cover Shane’s mouth or cover his own ears lest they bleed.  The sky is liquid silver overhead, a promise of rain in the future but none yet. Rick slows to a stop when he spots the same boy from yesterday; Daryl is sitting on the chain-link fence that surrounds the baseball field, kicking his feet idly.  Firming his grip on the umbrella, Rick approaches steadily. 

The boy watches, face narrow like a rat.  “Why you carry that stupid thing?” he calls out from distance.  “Little rain never killed anyone.”

It’s better than the shove from yesterday, Rick reasons, and ponders his answer as he comes to a stop beside Daryl. “It’s a shelter…I’ll share it with you, if you want?” Rick shrugs, looking toward the sky.  “Grandma said it was a sea-shell yesterday.”

“She’s as stupid as you are,” Daryl declares, but without heat.  His voice is curiously flat, devoid of emotion as he stares at the blue umbrella.  “So what’s it today then?”

“A broadsword,” Rick answers, guilelessly.

Daryl looks at him, one corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself.  “Nice,” he murmurs, under his breath.

Grandma said a whole bunch of kids witnessed the fire - Daryl among them - grandma said folks left the Dixon’s alone to cope with the loss because it was more polite that way, considerate; but Rick thinks it’s been nearly a month and maybe Daryl doesn’t _want_ to be alone…any more than Rick does, and maybe he’s sick of people whispering about him behind their hands.  Rick knows he didn’t want to speak to anyone when his dog died; but he didn’t want to be in constant solitude either, and it’s not the same - nowhere near the same as losing a mom - but it’s the closest experience Rick has. He’s never known anyone who’s died before.  “You don’t have to play pirates with me,” Rick says hastily, searching for a middle ground, nothing too babyish he thinks, nothing where they have to jabber at one another non-stop, but maybe hanging out, occupying the same space will help, just a little bit. “I caught some butterflies beside the river, the first day I was here, wanna help me find some more?” _It’s a secret weapon, that smile of yours,_ his grandmother said, fondly, _ray of sunshine in a gloomy world._ The first drops of rain start to fall, and Rick lets his umbrella unfurl.  He stares at the other boy keenly.  “The colours were really cool, I want to go hunting for fireflies too, got a jar with holes and everything, you keep them beside your bed at night as well?”

Daryl studies him, perplexed, when he finally speaks his voice sounds disused.  “What river? Where you found the butterflies at?”

“Gor-Gorkon creek?”  Rick says, uncertainly.

“Jacksons river is better,” Daryl states simply, and jumps off the fence, landing on Rick’s side of things, so close they jostle one another.  “Come on,” he says, a little shyly.   “You can bring Excalibur.”

 

***

 

Jacksons river winds across the countryside like a brown snake; its banks bloated to near bursting; when walking upstream, Rick could feel the spray against his face, white froth from submerged rocks flung into the air. It’s a low, rushing roar of unbridled force.  The fields to either side are lush with recent rain and monarch butterflies are everywhere. They land on Rick’s shoulder, on the end of his nose; they alight on Daryl’s fingertip, and explode from the grass in a riot of orange and black, in spotted whites and reds. Rick lies down, limbs akimbo, and pulls at Daryl until he lies beside him, staring upward at the mass of colour in wonder.  They talk about sport, trading cards (which Daryl can’t afford but sees at school) they talk about the animals in the nearby woods, and how Rick’s staying with his grandparents for one week while mom and dad reconnect, they talk about Sunday school – Rick has to go, Daryl doesn’t - it’s a waste of time, he says, and motions toward the river, the trees, the mountains, the church of the wild – worshipping the wrong damn thing.  Rick talks about Shane, the new Space Invaders game, how he’s glad he found Daryl, but doesn’t say he hates being alone.  Daryl admits, tightly, that he’s living at his father’s hunting cabin in the woods, they don’t have a phone, and there’s nobody within shouting distance of their location.

“You’re not going to ask?” Daryl asks at one point, his shoulders have hunched inward, he shoots Rick a sideways glance, suspicious, bordering on angry again.

Yes, Rick wants to say, I’m dying to ask, because he’s eight and his dad always said Rick’s curiosity could cause blunt force trauma - whatever that meant - but the way Daryl went from boneless to tense is an unlooked for leash, it makes Rick hesitate, and maybe it’s not something Daryl wants taken from him but to offer it freely instead.  “You can talk about it with me,” Rick says slowly, feeling the words out, and hopes the offer sounds as genuine as he intends. “Anytime you want.” He holds still, refusing to break eye contact, and waits until the tension bleeds out of Daryl’s frame again. Rick grins, he picks at a stem of grass and throws it at Daryl’s head.  “Race you to the river.”  He shouts, and explodes upward.

Rick beats him hands down in the race, not even out of breath, waving both arms above his head and making crowd noises – first across the winner’s line! – his smile carefree, when the embankment gives way beneath him.  There’s no warning, no thunderclap, one minute there’s terra firma beneath Rick’s feet the next, nothing.  It’s so sudden, Rick doesn’t have time to shout, his mouth firmly shut when he hits the turbulent water, mud sliding all around him, clumps of grass swirling away, and his yellow gumboots fill with a dreaded weight, pulling Rick down. Everything is murky, poo brown, he can’t tell which way is up, the torrent lashes his clothing, constricts his chest, and Rick barely kicks one gumboot off before the other one is mired, foot twisted beneath him and wedged under muck and debris.  Rick thrashes, panic fuelling his movements, trying to slip his foot free, while his lungs scream for oxygen.  His umbrella isn’t a sea-shell, it’s a traitorous escapee, it pinwheels into the torrent of raging water and vanishes, end over end. Rick twists like a pretzel, yanking at his foot.  The pressure builds inside his chest, a dull roar inside his head, when something – someone - barrels into Rick bodily, clutches hard, thighs clamped around Rick’s waist, both ankles crossed behind Rick’s back, hanging on.  He sees Daryl blurrily; his features distorted underwater, and feels his mouth slip open – unbidden - as the last of his oxygen recedes. The race and the shock of the impact doing all the hard work, leaving Rick dangerously short of breath.

Rick’s goldfish had fallen out of its bowl when he was five, he remembers watching it on the kitchen table, the way its mouth had opened and closed, opened and closed, flanks heaving, drowning in a roomful of oxygen, before Rick’s mom had scooped it up again and deposited it inside the fishbowl. Everything hurts, his head hurts, his chest hurts, Rick fumbles one hand out, fisting the sodden material of Daryl’s shirt, and barely jerks in protest when Daryl pinches his nostrils shut in retaliation, fixes his mouth over Rick, seals their lips together, and exhales, slow and steady.

Rick aches, his chest convulses with the intake, and there’s a weird awareness of what’s being done to him, the air stale in his chest, tasting like Daryl and peanut butter sandwiches.  Don’t panic, his dad encourages in Rick’s mind, hold the air, son, don’t panic.  Daryl breaks away, he scuttles down Rick’s body like he’s scaling a tree, contact everywhere and hanging on for dear life, he paws at the river-bed, stirring up further sediment, until he finally shoves away a rock, half-hidden by the fallout from the embankment.  Oh, Rick thinks, and then he thinks a very grown-up word indeed. _Oh shit_.

Their position - stationary while Rick was stuck – is removed with one desperate tug, and then Rick _is_ panicking, reaching for Daryl and yanking him close, kicking upward with his legs, striving for the surface as they shoot out into the river proper like a bullet from a gun.  They break the water, both of them gasping for air, spinning in a giddy arc as they rush downstream, and then they submerge again, dragged under by the current. Rick kicks, kicks, kicks – a roar of sound, dappled light on his face, blessed air – the landscape rushes by in a smear of green.  Daryl emerges beside him, hacking up water, and Rick doubles his grip, fingers fused into his jeans, hooked around Daryl’s leather belt.  They ricochet down Jackson river like a pin-ball, driven from one submerged rock to another, until Daryl takes the brunt of an impact too hard and too fast and goes limp.  Rick spins, tries to remember the basics of floating, not in an umbrella but on a raging river, feet first, head up.  He doesn’t let go of Daryl - Rick doesn’t know how to unclench his fist - and it seems like hours on a stormy sea; but it could be minutes in a world stripped of fantasy, nothing but blinding terror warping the concept of time, before their journey slows, white water giving way to a heavy overflow, slowing further into a calmer surface and gentle banks.

Rick’s heart is thundering; he wants to bawl like a baby but he’s too shocked to cry; he’s still stuck in the middle of the river and Daryl isn’t moving.  He kicks out toward the embankment, towing Daryl behind him, one arm looped around his chest and all of his adrenalin spent, Rick’s drowning; drowning like that goldfish, in a roomful of oxygen.  “Help me,” he says (gargles really, with half a mouthful of water), and when Daryl doesn’t respond, Rick says it again, louder and meaner, more insistent. “Help me or I’ll ask about your mom, I will, I don’t care if you’re ready or not. _Daryl, help me_!”

The other boy slits one eye open, he flails out with a hand, and pushes at Rick weakly.

Rick’s feet strike dirt; his toes scrabble for purchase until he can stand upright.  He lost not only his gumboots but somehow his socks as well, and he sinks a quarter of an inch into the riverbed.  “Come on,” Rick encourages, and gets his shoulder under Daryl’s armpit.  He half-carries, half drags the other boy, both of them stumbling in the water until they make the embankment, and then in tandem, they drop to their knees in the dirt.

Daryl hacks up half a river, vomiting dirty water with a groan, there are scrapes and bruises all over his arms and legs and Rick isn’t in better condition.

He starts to shake, bones rattling with it, now that they’re safe and the danger’s over he feels like he’s going to disintegrate. _You a sissy, son_?  His grandfather mocks: _don’t keep cry-babies in this house of mine, worse than a fag_.  _Look who’s a baby, look who’s a baby,_ Shane sing-songs, gleefully; Rick’s waiting for Daryl’s voice to join the melody, to mock him cruelly, but the other boy doubles over, hands and knees in the dirt, wet hair in his eyes and his gaze sharp, not clouded by fantasy at all.  “You’re okay,” he says to the ground - so Rick’s not certain if he’s addressing himself or his newfound (cry-baby) friend - but then Daryl turns his head, makes eye-contact, his smile fragile and genuine.  “You can talk about it with me…anytime you want.” Permission or acceptance, or someone who doesn’t care if Rick cries (or if he throws himself onto the ground in grief), or tear up from pain - that it doesn’t change Daryl’s opinion of him - ironically, it makes it easier to brace knowing there’s a wall of support beside him.

Rick’s tears stop after a brief spell, as quick and sudden as a Georgian downpour.  He wipes a shaking hand over his face, and forces himself to focus. “Are you okay?” Chest in a vice; remembering the way Daryl’s grip had slackened in the river, the jarring impact of a submerged rock and how desperate Rick was to hold on to him.

“Hurts like a summabitch,” Daryl says, plainly, and then nods.  “I’m okay.”

Those two sentences don’t seem related to Rick, or they cancel each other out, Rick’s too tired to unlock the true meaning, and settles for pulling Daryl close, checking for blood, open wounds. “Do you know where we are?”

“Yup.”

“Can you get us home?”

Daryl seems to think about it for a moment, considering, then staggers to his feet with one hand extended, Rick accepts the open palm and Daryl hauls him upward.  “Yeah.”

“Thank you,” Rick whispers, and squeezes Daryl’s hand.

 

***

 

Daryl escorts him all the way to the top of the street then begs off, saying his dad will be hopping mad if he stays out any longer.

Rick promises to meet him in the morning then walks up the porch steps to his house in trepidation.  He lost his brand new gumboots – he lost grandma’s umbrella - and his clothes are streaked with mud, wet, and pulled out of shape. Grandma freaks out when she sees him, she fusses over Rick all night, makes an urgent phone-call to the local GP and drives Rick to the doctors for a check-up, she calls his parents as well, speaking into the phone low and urgent.  She makes Rick hot chocolate and bundles him under warm blankets, one hand smoothing the curls from his forehead.

Rick’s entire body buzzes like a bumble-bee; his lips feel swollen, over sensitive, and his lungs strain, chasing the last dregs of a gift freely given, trying to hold it inside.  It was his first kiss, Rick thinks a little stupidly, and feels his stomach tie up in knots, confused and panting from it.  

He feels like he’s drowning, pulled into the deep - the hand that held Daryl’s belt curls into an unbroken fist - he twists under the blankets, feels the phantom press of lips against his own.  Warmth blossoms in his heart, chest, and lungs.  He sleeps restlessly, the memory of a phantom kiss, borrowed air, a buoy that keeps him afloat from true slumber.

 

***

 

Rick wakes up at six, and is out of the house by half past, the sky streaked a fire engine red.  Rick walks by the pet shop, he by-passes the candy store, the gas-station, the bar, he skirts around the baseball field and continues on until the houses take on a rougher edge, less reputable, where the garden’s become messier and junk adorns the front lawns, until he comes to a stop beside a lot with a burnt out house.  It doesn’t look like a bat-cave, or a pirate lair, it looks like someone’s home.

Rick sits down on the opposite curb and waits.

The bulldozer arrives by seven-thirty, the work crew stands around for almost an hour, drinking coffee from a flask and smoking cigarettes. Rick feels the prickle on the back of his neck, the heightened awareness of being watched, and calls out, exasperated.  “I ain’t going anywhere.”

Daryl plonks down beside him without grace, knees pulled tight to his chest and chin resting on top, arms looped around his shins. His eyes are bright - a shimmering blue like the wet ocean - and he bites his bottom lip compulsively. The bulldozer starts up, the engine roaring under a cloud of black smoke.  “This is where I stood…when my mom burnt to death,” he whispers, the words barely audible over the noise.  Rick wraps an arm around his shoulder, loosely.  They watch the house go down together, Rick talks, weaving his grandmother’s tall tales into the air, sharing them with Daryl, stretching them thin, a band-aid on the membrane of reality.

It takes the work crew less than fifty minutes to level the house to nothing, wiped off the face of the planet, and they sit for two hours more, until Daryl unwinds from his tight ball, until he tilts into Rick’s embrace, breath shuddering hotly as he listens.  It’s barely eleven o clock, and the entire afternoon stretches before them.  “Shane’s better at baseball.  He’s a better player than me,” Rick admits.

Daryl stirs.  “Bullshit.”

Rick shoots him a scandalised look at the cuss-word. At home, that would be his pocket-money in the jar, no take-backs.  “It’s true.”

Daryl wipes at his eyes brusquely, he stands and stalks off, not looking at the demolished house again.  “Come on, let’s practice.” 

Shane might be a better hitter but as a pitcher, Daryl has flawless aim.  Rick runs home to borrow his grandfather’s bat, ball, and mitts and the rest of the afternoon is spent on the field, far away from rivers and unstable banks, with teasing jeers and cat-calls tossed between them harmlessly.  The dull strike of wood against leather rings out loudly when Rick finally hits it out of the park, he salutes the other boy cheekily, and breaks out into a full-fledged smile.

“I’ll see you ‘morrow,” Daryl says at five.   He grins, loose limbed and happy.  "I'll start pitching you curve-balls."

“You bet.” 

Rick comes home smelling of grass and triumph, thinking about Shane and the look of surprise that will be on his face at the next baseball game, he runs up the steps, barrels through the kitchen, and runs straight into his dad.  “Hey there, champ.”

Startled, Rick recoils.  “What are you doing here?”

His mom presses in close, concern dark in her eyes. “Are you alright, we heard about the river?”

“That was ages ago!” Rick complains.

“Yesterday,” his mom corrects, and cups Rick’s cheekbone between her palms.  “Oh sweetie, you look like you’ve been in a war-zone.”

“I’mma fine.”  She hugs him tight, Rick squirms then melts against her, face buried in her belly.

Overhead, his father says:  “Cut our trip short: we’ll drive home early tomorrow morning, try and beat the traffic out.”

“Good idea,” his grandfather confirms. “Which route you going to take?”

“Staying for dinner tonight?” his grandma asks, archly, speaking over the top of them.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Edna,” his mom adds, all of their voices jumbling together into a loud mess

“I’ve still got three days,” Rick protests, unheard. “Please, we can’t go yet.”

Rick’s dad is a lawyer, like his mother before him. He’s eloquent yet spare, careful with his choice of words, trimming off the fat, he’s been known to say. He wakes up every day at impossible hours, when the world is still dark, and the following morning is no exception.  The family vehicle is packed and ready to go before six am; Rick’s mom isn’t quite so keen on early starts, she emerges from bed with her hair resembling a vivid birds-nest, blinking owlishly, and stretches her limbs out long.  “Breakfast,” she insists.  “One of your mom’s fry-ups, too.”

Dad frowns, impatient, and taps at his watch.

She laughs, flips him off, and pours out five glasses of orange-juice.  “It can wait.”

Rick scoffs his breakfast down, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk, he skips the shower altogether and bangs out the front door in yesterday’s clothes like a whirlwind, his father yelling for his return – _right this instant, young man!_ – going unheeded.  Rick rabbits down the street, running hard, thinking Daryl didn’t show up until almost eight yesterday, and what if he does the same today, what if Rick misses him completely, what if they’re gone by the time Daryl wanders in from the woods and his father’s hunting cabin? He doesn’t have a phone-line – at present - they don’t even have a postal address. Rick scrambles over the Jerrick’s wooden fence, cutting across their back lawn, employing every short-cut he knows, and arrives at the baseball field in a sweaty heap.  On the opposite side of the field, his parent’s car rolls into view (the cheats!)  The horn blasts once, insistently, and Rick can’t see his dad’s face but he imagines it’s livid.

Sitting on the chain-link fence, Daryl turns to smile at him.

His dad steps out of the vehicle, shading his eyes as he squints across the field.  Rick grimaces, then jogs down the incline to meet Daryl.

“Heya – “

“I have to go,” Rick interrupts, bluntly. “My parents are here and we’re driving out this morning.”  He stops, trails off, lost for words - they’re all swallowed up by the rising tide in his lungs.  “I’m sorry,” he adds, miserable.

Daryl’s expression, open and happy when he caught sight of Rick, stutters into a mask.  “I thought you had a week?”

“They came back early.”  The horn toots again, louder as his dad holds his palm against it.  Rick shuffles his feet and thinks this would be easier if Daryl didn’t look so crestfallen, like his whole world is coming apart.

Daryl drops the baseball at his feet and shrugs one shoulder.  “’Kay, you ought to get.”

Rick takes a step forward.  Daryl is pale in the morning light, his bruises never seem to fade, they’re like a discarded jig-saw puzzle, rendering the picture incomplete. He looks as miserable as the first day Rick saw him.  _Please don’t drown_ , Rick thinks inanely, his heart beating wildly, and kisses him, sharing breath.  It’s not a Hollywood kiss, it’s not icky - an invading tongue like an overgrown slug - it’s lips sealed together and the gentle expulsion of air, trying to fill Daryl up from the inside with _Rick;_ _please don’t drown,_ Rick repeats, and touches the bruises on Daryl’s nape, finger-shaped and angry-red.

It’s the most terrifying thing Rick has ever done, his body tingles at each point of contact, his lips burn, and he knows his father is watching.  Terrifying and new, strange and different, he might be scared but Rick’s not a coward. Rick breaks away finally, stumbles back, he can’t bring himself to look above Daryl’s nose, doesn’t want to see hatred or disgust reflected back, Rick spins on his heel and races toward the car. 

 

***

 

The drive home is silent; his father clears his throat once or twice, as if about to start a conversation then subsides. Rick busies himself in the back seat, buried under his sleeping bag and colouring books scattered around him. The book is filled with images from Battlestar Galatica, Apollo and Starbuck, Vipers, and spaceships rendered in primary colours.  “You still want to be an astronaut?” Mom asks, gently, looking over her shoulder.

“No,” Rick says, absent-minded.

“Back to being a lawyer, like your old man?” his dad encourages.

“A policeman.”

“Win lots of medals?  Shoot a gun?  Chase down bad guys?”  The voice sounds indulgent.  

Rick frowns and looks out the window, he touches his lips once, nervously.  “I want to help people.”  It’s a partial truth, but the remainder belongs to Rick and Rick alone, he doesn’t want to share it. He remembers being swept away by a force he couldn’t control, hanging onto Daryl every step of the way, help is such a broad banner, more intrinsically, Rick wants to _protect._

“It’s a good career,” his mom says, slowly.

 

 

***

 

Rick’s always had an eye for faces, it’s part of the job, the man that steps out of the wild doesn’t have the features of a rat any more, no longer sharp and hungry, he’s put on weight, some mileage, and definite muscle-mass.  His shoulders are broad, arms cut, his gaze sears across Rick - standing mute and dumb beside Shane - without even a glimmer of recognition.  “Who are you?” he says, and his expression is the same long ago sneer of childhood.

“Rick Grimes,” he answers, dully, and draws a deep breath, filling his lungs, putting aside the surprise – _did you drown?_ – in favour of Merle Dixon instead.  “There’s no easy way to say this….”

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [my brother's blood in my dirty lungs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203602) by [maranhig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maranhig/pseuds/maranhig)




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